


Reaching Further On

by Laylah, roachpatrol



Series: Imperial Pop Star [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternian Imperial Propagandizing, Coercion, Decadence, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Exhaustion, Experience Difference, Hero Worship, M/M, Pervasive Casual Hemocasteism, Pop Star AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orphaner Dualscar is your musical <i>idol</i>, right—well done, yeah, that makes you really special, he only has <i>millions</i> of devoted fans, only gets commendations from the Ministerror of Entertainment for his service to the Empire. But most of those millions of fans are never going to get the chance you're getting right now, milling around outside a makeshift set after answering a call for extras. You're going to be in one of his videos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching Further On

_I'm waiting for the plane to crash and burn_  
 _I like the smell of burning kerosene_  
 _I'm feeding on the thrill of primal fear_  
 _I want my share of fluid endorphine_

You can't believe this is happening to you. Just, holy shit, you can't believe it. Orphaner Dualscar is your musical _idol_ , right—well done, yeah, that makes you really special, he only has _millions_ of devoted fans, only gets commendations from the Ministerror of Entertainment for his service to the Empire. But most of those millions of fans are never going to get the chance you're getting right now, milling around outside a makeshift set after answering a call for extras. You're going to be in one of his videos. They're filming a video for the first single off _Wwhatevver It Takes_ and you're going to be in it. You can barely hold still, you're so excited.

There's a lot of jostling and elbowing as everyone lines up by bloodcaste for the directors to look you over, and you squeeze awkwardly into the rustblood section and hate every single person in this crowd who's taller and meaner-looking than you are, which is almost all of them. The directors are a pair of ceruleans with matching horns and hairstyles, and they pace back and forth, looking the lot of you over like they're assessing infantry before the charge. You square your shoulders and try to look determined: if you can’t do big you can at least do tough.

The female one stops in front of you. "You. Step up, sweetheart."

You actually look behind yourself in case there's somebody more appropriate lurking right behind you, and the director laughs. She beckons and you step out of line.

Her counterpart comes swanning over and his eyes go wide as he looks down at you. "Oh. Oh, _honey_ ," he says. "We could have put out a specific casting call and not gotten this lucky. Look at those eyes. Those horns. Sugargrub, can you give us your scared face?"

Raging hoofbeast fuck, can you ever. You let your eyes go wide, your lips just slightly parted. Your shoulders hunch a little. You spend all your time trying _not_ to make this face; the only hard part is letting it out instead of hiding.

The ceruleans squeal like they're kids who just caught sight of _their_ pop star idol. "Perfect, sweetie. The camera is going to eat. That. Up."

You’re pretty sure you should be insulted but the way they’re all smiling at you—no one’s ever looked at you like you’ve done something _right_ before. Let alone adults, professionals. It’s surprisingly nice. The twin ceruleans usher you further forward and other adults go picking through the line, breaking it up, scattering the kids out.

“Let’s take you to wardrobe,” the male says. His fingers find their way into your sweater’s collar, give it a tug. “You are going to be just the cutest doll.”

“He’s got just the face for glam.”

“Mm, well, let’s see if he’s got the waistline.”

You are pushed into a bright, colorful block full of mirrors and bustling midbloods, set in front of a ring of mirrors and machines, and stripped with dizzying efficiency, shirt to shoes, right down to your briefs. It’s scary and you’re having second thoughts, but your utter lack of any growth cycles worth mentioning means your skin’s still wiggler-thick, and the subject of much exclaiming among a pair of greenblood designeradicators.

“Like pewter,” one greenblood exclaims. “Like wet silk!”

“His scars aren’t even tinted, that’s precious,” another coos, pulling one of your arms out, running their fingers ticklishly over the silvery marks. Neither of them have any discernible gender besides _glittery._ The designeradicator twitters, “My, but you’re a fit little thing, though. What’s your strifekind, pupa?”

“Sickles,” you say, and raise your chin. “And I’m damn good with them.”

This earns you a pat on the head before they drop your arms and pull out a drawing pad.

“Are you thinking of gloves?” the other greenblood asks.

“No, no, the scars are cute. Shows a nice feisty spirit. We can gloss them.”

“Well we still need some point of real character, so—”

You don’t understand one word in a dozen after that, but you are pulled and prodded and measured—by the mothergrub are you _measured _—and at one point have to hang on to your briefs and snarl when they try to get a look at your bare, your, well. Your stuff. No one’s skin is thick enough to hide color _there___ , and you’re getting kind of uncomfortably warm from all this pulling and prodding, anyway.

“Kitty’s got claws,” a passing teal remarks. “Me-yow!”

“We should paint them,” the nosier greenblood remarks, but you get to keep your briefs on. You focus on steady breaths and a serious expression.

Then, suddenly, the greens are nodding, four more tealbloods have shown up from whatever the fuck and are doing things with the machines, and the two ceruleans come back from wherever.

“Let’s see the big reveal, then,” the cerulean woman says.

“Hold still, darling,” one of the greens says. “And close your eyes.”

The other claps her hands, twice, and clothes print themselves across your body, fishnets and vinyl and some kind of jacket and thick heavy boots. You choke back a squeak and go stiff and _wow_ these pants are _tight._

“We did try and get that rag off your glutes beforehand,” one greenblood says without much sympathy, and taps her pad. You don’t manage not to squeak this time as your briefs go...elsewhere. The pants fit a little better. The pants fit like a second skin that’s at least a size smaller than your regular set of epidermis. If your bulge isn’t permanently compacted by the end of this you will be honestly surprised.

“So, speaking of glutes,” one of the ceruleans says admiringly, and tilts his head to one side.

“He’s seven, darling.”

“Seven and a fucking half!” you object on reflex. Your face is burning. You are going to lose your shit. 

“He’s seven and a fucking half,” the cerulean says to his partner. She bops him with a clipboard.

“You do have a very lovely posterior, sugar, and it does your Empire credit,” she says to you. To the greens: “Raise the hemline of the jacket?”

They giggle. You’re going to lose your shit, then _die._ After an interminable time of feeling your clothes shift and scrunch around you, a flickering weird storm of fabric, you are told to open your eyes.

“Fuck,” you say, staring at the mirror. “I—wow. Fuck. Is that me?”

The kid in the mirror is you, but somehow infinitely more so. You don’t know fashion from a hole in the head but you know you are looking at _style._ The beetle-glossy jacket gives you these ferociously square shoulders, and the pants are... well. You didn’t know your legs could look like that.

But then: “Crimson,” the female cerulean says, looking straight into your eyes, and your pump biscuit shoots itself up into your gape tunnel and dies there. “Imperial crimson.”

“Brilliant, babe,” one of the greens says, and taps stylus to pad.

Your glossy black jacket goes the same shocking, vivid red as your blood. The studio lights bounce a bright strawberry blush off the underside of your jaw, off your cheekbones. You look older, with color on your face. You look like a fucking freak that it’s _red._ Your pupils are narrow with a completely new kind of excitement, tingling and hot.

“Love it!” the other green squeals. “That’s so _spunky_!”

The female cerulean just smiles, smug and proprietary, and you smile shakily back.

* * *

“Normally we’d do this out of sequence, but hey, it’s the bright season, the light’ll stay fine for hours. Don’t think the Amporas are due to show for at least another four. Let’s do this chrono, get you in character. Won’t that be fun?”

All your excitement has distilled into a tense and anxious desperation to _not fuck this up._ You nod.

What you have to do for them is actually pretty simple to figure out, and they walk you through the sets and the blocking only twice before they start making pleased noises. They call you a natural, they ruffle your hair. You can _do_ this, you realize with a settling sort of exhilaration. The story is simple: a lowblood gets a worrying message from his highblood moirail, and rushes to his palemate’s side to find he’s murdered a seadweller. The lowblood, nobly, tragically, takes the fall for it.

It’s just all so romantic you could cry, and you can hardly get the idea to set in your pan that _you’re_ that lowblood, the dashingly heroic lead of this little story, the one getting coached to drop to your knees by a spreading pool of violet and smear the color—so rich, so royal—up onto your own hands, your sickles, your face schooled tight and worried, your teeth sunk just so into your lower lip. Acting, it turns out, is easy. You’ve only been doing it your whole life.

Then they tell you they want to see you stroke your pretend moirail's face for the end of the scene, and you have another tiny freakout about that, kind of a worse one. You can’t, you don’t even know him, you’ve never touched anyone. One of the directors tells you, kindly but not taking any shit at all, that you're just _acting_ , and they really need this shot, and they're on a schedule.

You troll up and do it. The indigo actor’s smile is tight and sweet, and the lines of sticky violet your wet fingers leave are shocking against his soft, cool, pale cheek. Your bloodpusher gives an awful little shudder. They decide that your panicked expression works because you're obviously worried about the crime your character’s taking the fall for, and not about the fact that you’re touching a guy who could snap your neck like a fried tuber strip. You’d never in a million sweeps have thought you’d be so relieved to be hauled away by burly bluebloods in full combat gear. They don't make you shoot that scene again.

Instead they make you come back to the wardrobifiers so they can change your costume for the main part of the story, in the prison.

* * *

The outfit’s worse this time, and they touch you longer, primping and tugging. Gone is that sharp, determined-looking kid who took a fall for his pale beloved. Now you’re a convict, raggedy and helpless, claws—you squawk and snap but it doesn’t help—filed blunt. Your shirt is some artistically tattered thing that drapes on you like the sorriest insulation plane, showing off your collarbones, the base of your throat, half your chest. When you try to twitch the sagging sorry-ass excuse of a neckline up towards your actual neck they smack your hands. Your sigil’s _still_ in red and it makes you queasy. You feel more exposed than you had when you were down to your briefs, and your artistically raggedy pants aren’t any less of a stranglehold on your bone bulge. They just have huge, embarrassing holes across your thighs.

“Aren’t _you_ a pretty little piece of cullbait now,” a greenblood giggles.

“So they tell me, sir,” you agree tightly. But... if you don’t think of it as yourself, if you look at the kid in the mirror... he’s pretty pitiful. You turn your head a little, try on a brave snarl for size. He’s pretty cute. 

“Scared face,” you’re reminded.

You mug one, eyebrows up and hopeful, eyes wide and wary, and they coo and flutter around you, saying _darling_ , saying _honey_ , saying _sugargrub_. It feels stupid, like some kind of magic, like a joke. You smile just shy enough to earn another pat on the head.

It feels good.

* * *

The blocking for getting processed is easy, quick one-take scenes that mostly involve being tossed around by handsome, brawny ultramarines and indigos while looking defeated. Then you’re introduced to your artsy prison haircut.

“Don’t squirm,” the greenblood says, her hands firm and cool and tortuous. “Kid, _settle_.”

“Don’t get feisty on me now,” the director calls. “Save the fire for later, pupa!”

You want to die of shame. You want your ears to fall off. You want to get your knees up to your chest without tipping everyone off, but you haven’t ever been touched like this and you had no idea that someone else’s hands could do this to you, cupping the back of your neck, the side of your face, a thumb stroking gentle and absent over the shell of your aural dish. All the excitement and tension of the night’s grounded itself in how good it feels that this clueless stylist won’t stop touching you in places you had no idea could get so sensitive. You think the only thing keeping your bulge from making an athletic and ultimately tragic bid for freedom is these damn pants and even then it’s a matter of time before the fabric tears from sheer force of _wow she just stroked your neck, AUGH._

“Can I just have a minute,” you demand breathlessly.

The director swears, you flinch, and the stylist raps her scissors sharply against your horn. It jolts all the way down your spine, and you shudder, completely miserable.

“Kid,” the stylist snaps, “they said you were cooperative!”

“I’m trying,” you say, “I just, I. Um,” and then god help you but you _chirp,_ half-stifled and ashamed, when your ear gets tugged on again.

“Um,” the stylist repeats, and you can feel her getting it.

All dignity already lost, you pull your knees to your chest, _finally,_ and bury your face in your knees.

“I’m sorry!” you wail. “I am so, _so_ sorry!”

There’s a burst of laughter, not entirely unkind.

“God, to be young again,” the director sighs. “We need an ice-down over here!”

A few stylists peel you out of your huddle, pulling you upright with hands at your horns and your knees and then OH FUCK, an ice pack gets pushed between your legs. Your bulge retracts so fast you can hear the sonic boom, or maybe that’s your teeth slamming together as you try to keep from screaming.

“Shit goddamn _fuck_ me in the nasal cavity with a _ghoul_ ,” you grit out, quietly but not entirely calmly, and are patted kindly on the back.

“Now hold still,” the stylist says. “We have to even you up.”

* * *

The main dance floor, the courtyard of the prison set, is a chaotic jumble of smoke and glitter and whirling lights. You can’t dance and you can’t blow shit up with your brain, but you can follow directions like a champion. Unfortunately it seems like no one else can, and you have to dodge and duck and scramble here and there and every-fucking-where as the rioting convicts are rounded up, chewed out, and set back into motion. Every shot needs something like a million takes and the spotlights keep you dizzy and off-balance and you’ve stubbed your toe badly, twice. When a flying piece of shattered brick clips one horn you go down and then just lie there, panting and sick, while the director calls _cut_ yet again and everyone troops grumblingly back to starting positions.

Who knew a riot needed such exacting choreography? You’re tired enough to scream, and you still haven’t gotten to the part where you actually reach the alarm switch and call in the Amporas. You just desperately want this to be over; it stopped being any kind of fun aeons ago. But there’s no choice about leaving this shit half done, and you wouldn’t even if you could. You got picked out, they chose _you,_ and you have to see it through.

You peel yourself off the cool, gritty floor, try to brush glitter and dirt off your face. Your head’s pounding and you’re breathing too hard, some dim part of you knows, and you wrap your arms around yourself and try to struggle on through. A makeup tech swoops in to dab at your cheek, then pulls at your eyelid.

“Have you been drinking?” he asks, and the frank alarm in his tone freaks you out.

“No, I don’t—” you start saying, and a flurry of other techs start swarming around you.

“The director—”

“Knew he’d get worked too hard, look how small he is—poor little darling—”

“Why didn’t he _say_ —”

“Well, would you? Honestly!”

“Man, that’s some spirit. We’ve been filming _how_ many hours now?”

“Here we go. Kid, drink up.” Someone pushes a can of soda into your hands and you fumble gratefully at the pulltab. The carbonation stings your nasals, snaps at your throat; you never have junk food. Can’t afford it. It’s fantastic, the most delicious thing you’ve ever had, just pure sugar. You cough, choke, gulp down more.

“Not so fast, you’ll get sick.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, and try to sip.

“Someone get him some protein powder,” someone calls.

“Cup your hand.”

“Ugh, don’t just pour it into his _hand,_ it’s filthy around here. Mix it.”

You get another, opened, can of soda, this time with a thick, chalky texture to it.

“Urgh,” you manage, before you go into a coughing spasm. It’s bitter as hell and spicy enough to make your eyes water.

“Protein meal and some uppers, kid. You’ve been filming six hours now, you need it. We’ve got at least three hours to go.”

As shit as it tastes you do feel better, the pounding, miserable tiredness receding some. Your heart’s still battering away inside you and you can feel sweat dripping from your jawline but your breath’s coming more easily, at least. Someone pats you dry with a fluffy towel and you lean gratefully into it.

“You need to sit down?” someone else asks, and you choke bitter sludge up your nose when you see it’s one of the directors.

“No, ma’am,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She chucks you under your gross damp chin. “You’re a credit,” she says warmly. “Come on, toss the can and let’s get back to work. We’re losing the light. Think you can go faster in the shot where you turn the corner?”

“I _know_ I can,” you say, squaring your shoulders out.

* * *

Finally, you reach your last scene, and now you know how hoofbeasts feel when they’re ready to get back to their spawning banks: you are _driven,_ you can’t wait to get this over with. You just have to dash up a short flight of stairs to the upper ring of cageblocks around the courtyard—augh, _stairs,_ your legs hate you enough already—bowl over one final mean-looking convict, and slam your hand down on the alarm lever. Sirens and strobe lights then come on, confetti rains down from the sky, the Amporas make their entrance, and _you_ get to sit down for a while.

It isn’t until you’re halfway up the stairs that you recognize the mean-looking convict.

“Wh— _Karkat?_ ” the psionic demands, and you almost faceplant.

“Sollux?” you say, and then the two of you are laughing like idiots, circling around each other. Gone is your nerdy, gangling loser of a hatefriend, the longsuffering jerkass who just came along with you for the promise of a good time and all the shit he could trash. This is a hardboiled piece of lowblood scum, his prison uniform showing off a set of arms and shoulders you had no idea he was growing into. He’s got tattoos all up and down his throat, creepy butterflies and flowers, it should look absurd. Fuck, he’s going to be big.

“God, your make-up—”

“The hell are you wearing—”

“Did they pad your ass out—”

“Pupas,” the Director says. “To your marks.”

“Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ this,” you say, and he drawls, “Enjoy getting your bubble-butt kicked back down the stairs?” and when you get the signal you charge up and plow into his thorax so hard he flares like a strobe light with pain and shock.

You’ve only ever seen schoolfeeds on using a taller opponent’s center of gravity against them, and there is this weird moment of shock as you feel him roll up and over your shoulder, and he hits the ground hard. You spin away—the camera crew’s whooping, loud and encouraging—and you slam your hands down on the alarm lever. Lenses follow you all the way down to the floor and it’s not even effort to make this a dramatic swoon, you are _wiped_. You tip your head back against the cool wall and just breathe, eyes closed, utterly relieved.

“Cut,” the Director says, indulgent and pleased. “Good job, kid, that was some flash. Alright, Amporas entering in five, let’s move it, people!”

In the scuffle and rush of everyone tearing ass all over the set, Sollux ends up leaning on the wall against you.

“Hey, fatass,” he says.

“Hey, pukelord,” you grunt.

“Dude, you look wiped.”

“Not too wiped to knock you glutes over fucking tea pouring container,” you shoot back, and he even grins a little at that.

“It was a fluke,” he says. “An exception.”

“Yes, if you disregard every failure as an _ekthhhheption,_ ” you tease, “then you end up with a perfect record, don’t you?”

“You're damn right I do,” he says. He rubs at his butterflies. “Fuck, do you think these are ever going to come off?”

“I will laugh so hard if they don’t. You’re going to be some knuckledragging shit-for-brains punk forever. They’re going to take one look at you come conscription day and send you off to the janiterritorials.”

“They’re going to look at _you,_ ” Sollux starts, and then the lights go silvery and the crowd goes quiet.

“Oh my god shut up,” you breathe, and struggle to sit upright. “They’re here.”

The Amporas come striding onto the set like they're fighter planes in tight formation, moving in unison, crisp precision in every goddamn gesture. They're wearing sleek tailored-tight rioterminator uniforms, with the stiff collars and the high glossy boots, and the tips of their horns gleam in the light. Your mouth is dry. Other parts of you, not so much.

“Look, KK,” Sollux is saying, “When this is over, do you want to, like—I don’t know—maybe come over to my place—”

There's this thing they're doing with their hips as they move, and you just. You can't stop staring and you can't stop thinking about what's underneath those skintight dragonhide pants, holy _shit_. It's not just their hips, either. The set of their shoulders is pretty amazing, and the toss of their horns, fuck, it's like everything about them just screams perfection. You don't know whether you wish you could touch them or _be_ them.

“I was just thinking—if it isn’t totally stupid—we could have a rematch?” Sollux asks.

“What?” you say absently, busy staring, busy _wanting._ “Yeah, sure, Sollux, whatever,” but he’s already being hauled off by some choreographer or other; he’s needed for the big fight scene. You just let your chin rest on your knees and watch.

It's almost like another shot of the protein stuff, the way seeing them gives you this fresh burst of focus and clarity. They just march in and suddenly the whole room revolves around them. Even the directors look smaller, standing in front of Dualscar and explaining the shots they have in mind. At one point they gesture in your direction and he looks over at you. He nods, smiling just a little, and wow you might need another ice pack oh fuck.

When they call for people to get in positions again, though, you get to stay where you are, still slumped by the alarm. You can't decide whether you're sorry. On the one hand, thank fuck for the chance to catch your breath, and wow the view is great when you can watch them move. On the other hand, the kids who are just doing crowd roles are actually getting up close and personal with the Amporas. Lucky bastards.

They do these synchronized moves, striking out with batons in their right hands, riot shields in their left. Stomp, spin, the prisoners scattering and cringing. Strobe lights burst in time with their strikes. It's a harder edge than a lot of their videos have, you think with the last part of your pan that's still capable of higher functions. Like, they play with the martial look a lot —god, why wouldn't they, with a build like that to fill out a uniform—but usually they're big on a redrom-conquers-all theme, too.

Then they switch gears, and start working on these takes where Eridan and Cronus are pushing the rioters back in opposite directions so that Dualscar can cut his way through them. You realize they’re working their way towards you. You look around for some direction, somebody to tell you where you should go. When you try to get up—fuck, your costume really doesn't give you any way to hide what your stupid bulge is doing—one of the teals appears at your side to push you back down.

"Just stay right there, pupa," the teal says, and then you're getting a second round with the ice pack, ow ow ow you can feel the libido-killing chill right up to your _horns_ , thank god for small mercies. "You'll know your cue when you get it."

You take deep breaths and watch as the Amporas slowly come closer, two takes of this step, three takes of the next angle. Then Cronus and Eridan take down the last of the rioters, Dualscar slides out from between them to dart up the stairs easy as flying, and he's reaching out a hand to you.

Your bloodpusher is going at least triple time and you're staring up at him in utter poleaxed awe. Your hand shakes as you stretch up to put it in his, tiny and blunt-nailed in comparison with his adult strength and perfect claws. He pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. You stare up at him and try to think something more useful than _he's even more gorgeous up close_ , and he puts a hand on your shoulder and smiles.

"Cut!" the director barks. "Perfect, that was perfect, cameras, tell me we got clear angles on that."

Dualscar hasn't stopped touching you. This was so, so worth it. Everything was worth it. Your nonsensical farce of a _life_ was worth it. He sweeps this grand low bow to the ring of applauding techs and camera crew with one broad hand still set heavy and casual on your shoulder, and when he straightens up, grinning, you bow too, wobbly and shy and completely giddy. There’s more applause, some laughter and whistling, and he still hasn’t taken his hand away. He gives you a squeeze, gentle and cool, and he’s smiling so broadly and so kindly. You’d swear the light goes _ping_ off his perfect fangs.

“So you’re my little hero, huh?” is the first thing Orphaner Dualscar ever says to you.

“Eep,” is the first thing you ever say to him.

"Ah. You must be exhausted, after a full night of shooting," he says, too gracious to even sneer at your lack of composure. His hand slides down to your back, guiding you toward the edge of the set. "Let's find someplace to get comfortable. Do you like sushi?"

* * *

Sushi, it turns out, is some kind of exotic eastern province fingerfood made out of a tart boiled grass-seed called rice, seaweed, and rich gem-bright slices of fishmeat. It is delicious, and after you work your way through half a dozen pieces you feel almost like a real troll again. You still have no idea what to say.

“So they tell me you’ve been shooting nine hours solid,” Dualscar says after he’s put away a number of his own rolls. He whistles, low and admiring. “That is some stamina, champ.” You are hot from your nose to your ears, and thoroughly glad of the glitter and grime coating nearly every inch of your face. You have to be blushing, you’re so shy and star-struck. But the lighting here, perched on a low section of artfully tumbled wall, is dim, and you feel almost safe.

“Yes, sir,” you say quietly. “I. Uh. I’m sure you’ve done better. I mean longer. I mean—harder, uh. Um.” You put another piece of soft, cold fish in your mouth and chew furiously.

“Well, not when I was seven and a half,” he says, carelessly, and waves another tray of rolls over. “We had to keep a close eye on Eridan when we started touring with him, you know. Sometimes he’d faint.”

You choke on rice. “He _wouldn’t_!” you say, then realize you’ve directly contradicted Dualscar. “I—I mean I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

Dualscar just grins. “And I’m sure he’d be flattered as all hell to hear that, sweetheart. Still, it’s a rough life sometimes, and it’s easy to overdo it. Music’s a harsh mistress. You chase perfection till you drop, sometimes, and you net yourself nothing but pain for your efforts...” He rolls his shoulders, all lazy perfectly indolent power, humming a quiet heart-breaking snatch of something, and leans back on his hands. He glances at you and you’re pinned before that heavy-lidded violet gaze. “I hope _you_ know when to take it easy.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree, and he rumbles out one of those beautiful chuckles again.

He shifts his weight just a bit and butts a horn familiarly against yours. “You’re a good kid.” You sit there stunned into silence and pretty sure you don't want to say _Yes, sir_ again in response to that. Your shoulder is still brushing up against his arm. The cameras are following Eridan as he decks some psionic kid to the floor.

After a minute of quiet that you hope is less awkward for him than for you, Dualscar reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a little foil packet. He opens it and pops something into his mouth, then offers the open packet to you. "Here," he says. "To perk you back up again, sweetie."

The packet is full of little green-gold tablets that don't look like any medication you've been able to afford on your sorry allowance. "What," you start, then trail off. Would it be rude to ask what he's giving you?

"Let it dissolve under your tongue," Dualscar says. "Just one should be plenty if you're not used to them."

You pop the tablet into your mouth, push it under your tongue. You can taste it vividly as it starts to dissolve, chemical-sweet and somehow tingly. Your bloodpusher’s already racing from nervous anticipation but everything _does_ feel better after a minute. The lights seem warmer, the smells are sharper, the worn-out ache in your legs and vertebral stack has condescended to fuck right off. You find yourself smiling, rubbing at your mouth, feeling increasingly pleased just to be alive.

“How do you feel, kid?”

“Good, sir,” you say, licking your weirdly heavy, syrupy tongue against your teeth. Everything feels so fascinatingly _nice_. “Really good. Thank you.”

"Well, then, there you go," Dualscar says, tucking the rest of the packet away and then draping a heavy arm across your shoulders. "That's my boy."

And that feels good, too, wow. Just... fuck. He ushers you up to your feet and steadies you through the sudden, surprising rush of vertigo, keeping you tucked close against him. You giggle, embarrassed and giddy, and he gives you a squeeze that has you nearly floating.

“This way, lovely,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” you agree. He called you lovely.

He steers you away from the set, through the dusty lot where all the shuttles and mobile hivesuites are parked. You stumble a little bit, your legs clumsy and weirdly light, but he just pulls you closer against him and his laughter is gentle, not cruel. When you look up at him—just to reassure yourself that this is real, that the cool strong body holding you up belongs to _Orphaner Dualscar_ , holy shit—he smiles down at you so kindly that you think you'd confess love right there if you could be sure you wouldn't trip on the words.

"Here we are," he says, stopping at the last of the mobile hivesuites. The jagged double lines of his sign are marked on the door in deep violet. He opens the door and steers you inside.

You are _in his hivesuite_ , with its mirrors and its racks of costumes, the scatter of palmhusks and clawpolish bottles dumped carelessly in a chair, and one side of the block taken up with a huge, plushly upholstered reclining frame, black striped with purple.

Dualscar sinks gracefully onto the frame, and you tumble awkwardly against him when he pulls you down. He smells amazing, and when he arches his back and cracks his vertebrae his chest rubs against your back, his shoulder rolls against your ear and you can hear the strange, subtle noise of his muscles sliding against each other, his bones clicking together. You’re dizzy and kind of freaking out.

“Relax for me, you pretty little thing,” he says, and runs his long perfect claws through your hair, once, twice, over and over. He traces up the curve of one of your horns, strokes over the tip. Sighs, low and pleased. Thumbs at your other horn, sending a lacework of golden warmth all through you. You whimper, trying not to let on how badly your pants are constricting you right now, how worked up you’re getting just from the simple way he’s fussing over you. You have, fuck, you have no idea what’s going on, is this some kind of decompression trick Dualscar shows to every newbie in the business, are you even in the business, is this normal, just a courtesy between colleagues but you’re not a colleague you’re just some kid who wanted to be an extra, why are you here, why are you playing host to such an absurd amount of party in your pants over just a little no-big-deal attention, you’re going to fuck everything up.

But it’s working, what he’s doing with your horns; you’re relaxing. Everything feels very bright and light and hazy and even though your skin is prickling all over with desire you’re curling into him, nuzzling helplessly up into his hand.

“There’s my little spitfire,” he says, “Easy, now, lovely.” He hooks just one strong finger around the base of a horn and tugs backwards, until you’re pinned against him, until you stop squirming with embarrassment and just drift, running your fingers dazedly against his dragonhide-clad leg, enjoying the texture. He’s purring, deep and nearly subsonic, like if mountains could purr. Everything is amazing.

Eridan and Cronus burst through the door, laughing and growling and yanking at each other’s uniforms, and all your gathering peacefulness pops like a stomped sowbug. You jerk upright, frantic, unsure of yourself, and Dualscar just chuckles and hauls you back against him, gives you a jovial noogie.

“Look who I invited over, boys, say hello,” he calls out, and they do, chorusing “Hey there, champ,” and “Pleased to meet you,” and, god, you want to die, you’re imposing on them, they’re so _handsome_. Cronus’s irises are still pearly with the last traces of adolescence, and Eridan’s have barely even started tinting, and it’s, fuck, it’s just that they’re so much closer to your age than Dualscar that it somehow makes it even worse that they look just like him, that they still have that strong jaw and those regal lighting-bolt horns. Dualscar’s an icon, an ideal, for all that he’s somehow acting like you’re worth touching, but his clones are so much more like real people.

Cronus’s grin is a brighter, more carefree beam than Dualscar’s charming smile, and he lets go of the front of Eridan’s pants—what were they _doing_?—to sweep his tousled bangs back from his forehead. Eridan smooths his rumpled shirtfront back down like a haughty mewbeast, peering interestedly at you like you’re some new puzzle. You’d shrink back under the attention, but there’s nowhere to go.

“He’s shy, isn’t he?” Cronus laughs.

“What’s his name?” Eridan wants to know.

“Karkat,” Dualscar says, and the sound of your name in his mouth, in his dark musical voice, smacks into your guts and burns there. You thought you were just being dirty, when they came in, thinking with the awkward primeval cavetroll part of you that’s ruled by your bulge and your nook, but you weren’t wrong—Cronus and Eridan are turned on, they were playing with each other and now they’re sporting great big obvious lumps in their gorgeous uniform pants. They come towards you like direbeasts, stalking and intent. You’re completely wired with adrenaline and disbelief and you can’t stop shaking. It’s like you’ve gotten trapped in some desperately unreal afternoon bucket fantasy.

Shit like this just doesn’t happen to shit like you. It doesn’t. It couldn’t possibly.

The two of them sit down next to you and you can’t even think anymore. Cronus wraps an arm around Eridan’s waist, playing with the top clasp of his uniform pants, and Eridan rests his hand on the inside of Cronus’s thigh and they just look at you, casually amused and utterly desirable.

“H-hi,” you manage. Eridan smiles at you and Cronus licks his lips.

"Don't let my boys fluster you, sweetness," Dualscar says, which is possibly the most difficult direction you've gotten yet tonight but you'll try. "We're all here for the same reason, after all."

Your eyes go wide. Shit. You are? You try and completely fail not to glance down at the heat Eridan is packing right now, and your ears feel hot and you hope to hell you'll pass for rust if they can see you blushing.

Dualscar pulls you casually into his lap, turning you to face him, so you can see his amused, compassionate smile. "Everyone needs a chance to relax after a hard night at work," he says. He cups one big hand against your burning cheek, cool and soothing. "Don't fret so. I want to see my little spitfire happy."

"Bet we can help," Cronus says. You hear shifting as the clones move, and then they're behind you, purring, stroking your back. Dualscar's hands are on your waist, steadying you. You're starting to wonder if there is any scrap of skin anywhere on your body that _wouldn't_ be an erogenous zone with one of them touching you. This can't really be happening. You're sitting snuggled up to Dualscar’s broad chest with Cronus and Eridan behind you, running their claws delicately up the back of your neck while you shiver. Any second now your bloodpusher is going to explode. A cool tongue traces up the rim of your aural shell and you whine.

"Here, lovely," Dualscar says, taking your hands in his. "You're not the only one who's sensitive there, you know." He brings your hands up to his fins, holy fuck, holy fuck you barely dare, but that face he's making is killing you. "So warm, little one," he says, and you run your shaking fingertips out along the bottom edges of each fin. These are the visible marks of his impeccable status, even more obvious than the deep violet of his eyes, and you're _touching_ them. Touching them, and making him sigh in satisfaction.

"Looking forward to getting some of that," one of the others says behind you. Cronus, you think. They sound more like each other than either of them do like Dualscar, but you've watched all their interviews. "I could use a little warmin’ up."

And then one of them—you've lost track of where it's Cronus touching you and where it's Eridan because you can't look away from Dualscar being _right there_ , and oh god making those faces because of your hands on him—one of them nips your ear and it's sharp and there's a trickle of _wet_.

You freeze. They freeze.

Your body isn't doing anything at all while your sludgy, confused pan kicks into an entirely futile overdrive, desperate, trying to picture any way you could get out of the cage of their limbs and flee. They're holding onto you. The youngest of them is still half a sweep older than you. Dualscar is a highblooded adult in his prime. You're so stupid. You’re stupid and you’re going to die. He's—

He's staring at you but not like he's horrified, not like it sickens him to be touching your mutant carcass. The same way Eridan had looked at you earlier, like you’re a puzzle. Like he's trying to figure out what you're for. When he raises his hand it's slow enough that you don't even flinch, slow enough that you’re spellbound with fear. He touches your bitten ear and then stares at his hand, at the terrible, incriminating color. Time stretches out, the last instants of your life hanging suspended there.

"Well," Dualscar says softly. He rubs the tiny traitor drop of your blood between thumb and forefinger, and you start trying to find words to apologize for your existence. "It looks like you're even more special than you seemed." He smiles, slow and broad, showing you the beautiful knife edges of his teeth. "Such a rare and precious little jewel."

He licks your mutant blood off his fingers like it's a delicacy.

You burst into tears. Instantly there are six hands stroking your back, your arms, your thighs, soothing and slow. "Don't fret, little treasure," Dualscar tells you, coaxing you closer, and you slump against his chest in desperate, shaking relief. His voice purrs through your aurals and settles at the base of your spine, fuck—you thought he sounded wonderful in his recordings, but that's nothing compared to having him tell you these things for real. "Little flushed sweetheart," he croons in your ear. "It's all right. We won't do you any harm."

How are you supposed to believe that? You can't stop shaking, clinging to his tailored rioterminator shirt, taking deep gasping breaths that don't help you get yourself under control at all. You should run, you need to run, any minute now you are going to run—but Dualscar tucks one cool hand under your chin and tilts your face up, then _kisses away your tears_. You think your bloodpusher might stop for an instant, right then.

“Shh, shh,” he gentles you. “We’ll take good care of you, precious little darlin’, sweet little thing, we’ll keep you safe, shh. Let us.”

You nod, struggling for breath, for words to wrap around how much you’re _feeling._ How could you ever refuse?

He kisses you before you can find any way to explain yourself, and that's fine, that's more than fine, oh. You let your lips part and his tongue explores your mouth, god, you knew intellectually how sensual that would be but you're so unprepared to actually feel it. You suck on his tongue, lick at the sharp points of his teeth. The uncomfortably tight pants are reaching the point of _hideously_ constricting, and you squirm in a futile attempt to relieve some of the pressure.

There's soft, teasing laughter behind you, and one of them says, "Need some help, there?" just before cool hands start running along the waistband of your pants.

For a second you tense up because it's instinct to hide yourself but—no, you don't have to, they know, they know and they aren't killing you. You chirp nervously into Dualscar's mouth and the hands at your waist pull your pants undone. You’re worried, you’re _terrified,_ they’re all going to see the absurd hue of your junk and laugh until they rupture, but he just cups the back of your head like he knows, stroking the side of your throat with a broad thumb, and _fuck_ , his hands are so big.

“Why don’t you let my boys make you feel good for me, little darlin’?” he drawls, breathy and amused.

He makes you feel so safe. You nod, and he pushes you gently away, into their laps. Your ridiculous shirt gets stripped off over your head. You remind yourself that the wardrobe department all thought you were fit and nicely put together, and try not to cringe and cover yourself. Dualscar looks at you like you're delicious. That helps. His boys both chirr like they’ve unwrapped a present and then there are hands everywhere, and that helps too.

“These pants aren’t just flattery,” Cronus says, actually cupping your actual butt. “What a fuckin’ _cutie_ we got here, bro.”

"Look at those scars," Eridan breathes, hushed and admiring, tracing the marks your training has left on your arms. "So fuckin' fierce. You’re a right terror, aren’t you, little guy?"

“It’s nothing,” you try and explain. “They’re not real, just from when I, I, I screwed up—”

“Hush, sweet thing. You kept goin’, didn’t you?” he purrs, and kisses one of the big ones on the back of your wrist where you’d nearly severed a tendon trying to dual wield while kick-flipping and ended up landing on your face. You could die from embarrassment and lust when his cool dark tongue laps at the mark, like it’s in any way sexy and not just a badge of shame.

Cronus tips your head toward him and kisses you, wetter and sloppier than Dualscar did, and that keeps you from telling them what a fuckup you are. He's still cupping your face, so those must be Eridan's claws hooking through the artistic holes in the pants’ thighs and _shredding_. Your bulge writhes free as the pants fall away and you sob into Cronus's mouth, sure that your body's eagerness is excessive, ridiculous, too fast.

"Fuckin’ amazin’, that crimson," Eridan whispers. “You’re pure magic, love.” You shudder in panicky, exposed arousal as your bulge squirms, smearing too-bright fluid on your stomach and your thighs. It's not amazing, it's what's _wrong_ with you, but you can't argue, don't want to argue, god. You want their version to be the truth, you want to be whatever it is that they’re seeing when they look at you. You want to stop acting.

Eridan leans back on his arms in a shockingly pretty echo of the way Dualscar had, capturing your complete attention, and then he rolls his hips up at you. “How about you spare some of that sweetness for me, spitfire?” he asks, and Cronus growls and nips at your ear, at the side of your mouth, and you’re so conflicted but you can’t stop staring. You’re going to fucking drool on yourself as Eridan skins out of his pants, bares his violet bulge to you, god, shit, you can see his nook.

He slips a hand down between his thighs and you think his fingertips dip _in_ , and your own nook clenches down hard. "Come on, Cro, let me get him started," he says. "Give that pretty thing here."

Cronus laughs. "Got you all worked up, pushing those lowbloods around, huh?" he says, still right at your back. "Leave you feeling empty?"

"Holy shit," you whisper as Cronus tips you forward, draping you over Eridan.

"He's right," Eridan tells you, soft and hungry. "A good night out there leaves me wantin’ to ride some pretty little thing so fuckin’ bad. Help me out, Kar. Come on and stuff me."

You're between his thighs and his nook is slippery soft against the tip of your bulge. Holy shit, you’re not going to make it. He's cool and slick and clenching, pulling you deeper, and it's just too good. You manage to get your hips flush with his before it’s too much and you come, just like that, wailing into his shoulder. You didn’t last five seconds, you’re such a failure.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, but he just cups the back of your head with one hand and your ass with the other, keeps you sprawled over him. He squirms, slow and delicious up against you, and you’re still shaking with aftershocks and shame, desperately oversensitive.

“Shh, shh, it's no big thing, pearl,” he says, kissing the tip of your horn, squeezing your ass. “We got all night. You just stay there, you feel so good, you’re makin’ me feel so good.”

Fuck, even if he's lying to make you feel better, it's working. You let your forehead rest against his shoulder while you take desperate breaths, trying to find your composure. His nook ripples around you and both of you make helpless noises.

"Go on, give him a hand," Dualscar purrs, and you look up, not sure who he's talking to. Then Cronus's claws drag up the back of one of your thighs and you shudder. You're so exposed, you realize. Can he see your nook at this angle? He can certainly reach it. And oh god, that's what he's doing, the pads of his fingertips teasing through your folds. You're soaking wet, and even if your bulge needs a little recovery time you're realizing that your nook is just fine. More than fine.

He presses slowly into you and you keen at the feel of it. You don't know how many fingers he's got in you but it feels like a _lot_ , cool and thick and pushing up deeper in you than you could ever manage by yourself.

“Sing out, sweetheart,” Cronus murmurs. “How’re you feelin'?”

“Ah-hh,” you manage, and it’s more than half whimper. He twists his fingers and you can feel his claws skating along the lining of your nook like fine lines of lightning. “Good, it’s, you’re good, it feels so good, Cronus, I—yeah. God.”

Eridan laughs, shifts, pats your head. “Well don’t stop there, kid,” he says. “How’m I?”

“I love you,” you blurt out, because, oh, the way he feels, the tender way he’s holding you, you’re a mess, and you do. You nuzzle your face harder into his shoulder, so you don’t have to look at him. But he just laughs, and Cronus makes a low interested noise and twists his fingers in you again, ripping out a desperate whine. “Please, fuck, I just, don’t stop, you’re—you’re both so—fuck, I can’t, I can’t words, don’t fucking make me, don’t stop, love this, it’s amazing, I can’t. Don’t stop.”

“Easy, easy,” Cronus croons, and his voice is so beautiful and the way he’s rubbing you, hooked up deep inside, is beautiful. “Easy, little gem. We won’t stop. You want more?”

“Yeah, yes, I, fuck, please, more—”

Eridan rubs the base of your horn, purring low in his throat where you can feel it, and he clenches down in unbearable ripples around your reviving bulge. "So fuckin’ precious, god, listen to you. We got so much more to give you, treasure."

Cronus slides his fingers back out of you and you arch your back, whimpering, knowing you must look completely desperate but not caring. His zipper comes down with a sharp hiss. "Lemme hear you say please one more time, sweet thing, love the way that sounds."

"Please," you gasp, you'd fucking say anything they wanted right now, "please, I-I'm too empty, I," you're choking on the words, flushing so hot.

Eridan licks your aural shell, breathes, "Tell him what to do to you, darlin'."

"Please f-fill me," you whimper, and that makes them both moan, in rich, crooning harmony. Cronus presses up close behind you, hips against your ass, and his bulge slides up through the soaking wetness of your folds to curl just a little way into your nook. You don't need to be prompted this time. "More," you say, "more, deeper, please."

"Can't turn down a request like that, boss," Cronus says. His hands curl around your hips and his bulge twists inside you, coiling slowly deeper, filling you a little more each time it moves, until he's deeper than you thought possible and stretching you wide open. Every time you squirm, trying to accommodate him, trying not to lose your fucking shit from how much you’re just _feeling_ , you’re viscerally reminded that you’re also quite literally bulge-deep in Eridan, and he wants to keep you that way. The two Amporas snap at each other over your shoulder, biting fiercely at each other’s threat-flared fins, as Cronus works his way into you and Eridan runs his hands possessively up and down your back. You don’t know which of them you want to win you more, you don’t want either of them to stop, ever.

Your bulge has recovered enough now to start participating again, and when you curl and squirm inside Eridan he groans, peppering your neck and shoulders with tiny bites and kisses. His breathing is getting unsteady, his fins twitching and flicking, and the idea that you're turning him on that much, that you really are making him feel good, is a sweet and dizzying adrenaline rush. You can’t believe this is happening.

Eridan makes a low, sweet, _desperate_ noise, finally, and hauls you tight and close up against him, pressing his face to your hair.

“Come for me, sweet thing,” he urges, “Make some noise,” and that’s it, that’s all you need, you do. It’s so much more intense than the first time and you wail, helplessly loud, clinging to him. You’ve never felt anything like this, and it shreds you apart.

He squirms under you then, while you lie pinned and trembling between them. You feel his bulge moving, twisting downward, and then oh, oh _fuck_ , the tip finds your nook and starts to writhe up into you, through the dripping mess of your genetic material, twining along Cronus's length. You're going to die. They're going to tear you apart, both of them filling you at once, both of them so much bigger than you. The sounds you're making are completely incoherent, weak little shaky whimpers and gasps, and you think maybe you’re crying again. You’re still wrecked from orgasm, dripping everywhere, but there are four hands all over your body, your hips and thighs and your agonizingly sensitive bulge—you don’t know who’s got it pinned up against your stomach but they won’t let it rest, stroking the tip over and over and teasing out awful shocks of pleasure even as you flinch and shudder from the bulges splitting you open. They’re not letting you come _down_ from the high, just stretching it out endlessly, leaving you a trembling, twitching mess of raw sensation.

"Fuck," Cronus gasps, "fuck, you bastard, do that again," and he must be talking to Eridan because you're sure as hell not doing anything right now; you are _being done_. You can feel both of their bulges lashing and twining inside you, they’re fucking with each other at least as hard as they’re fucking with you, and their voices are so chillingly sweet when they croon and curse, harmonizing in the weirdest places. 

“C’mon, champ, talk to us,” Cronus says, biting at your shoulder savagely, and you’re baffled for a second, you have just enough of a pan left to wonder _how the hell they expect you to,_ but Eridan growls, tips you further upright, pulls your face out of the safe curve of his throat by a stinging fistful of your hair and the look in his eyes is blazing hot and dark.

“You’re huge,“ you blurt out, your brain connected to your flap by only the finest of threads, “fucking, just, huge, you’re going to kill me, I don’t care, it’s so good, I fucking need you, need more—”

“Yeah,” Cronus sighs, squeezing your hips, “Lovely, come on, god you’re sweet, tell me you love me.”

“I do, I do, of course I do,” you choke out, “driving me, ah, fuck, you’re driving me crazy, I never thought, never, I—I, fuck, I don’t fucking know, I didn’t know, I want _more,_ even, Cronus, god, want you so bad this is just, amazing, this is stupid amazing, you’re—”

Eridan pulls you down to him and shoves his tongue into your mouth, growling low and hungry in this way that makes all your nerves light up. His tongue fucks your mouth just as mercilessly as their bulges are fucking your nook, and you're just as helpless to resist. This is the whole world for you by now, just them, cool skin and rough mouths and the feeling of being filled and fucked and taken _apart_ between them.

You think you might be coming, again, the sensation endlessly stretched out and nearly painful, your nook unable even to clamp down, you’re so full. You find yourself biting Eridan’s lips, his tongue, frantic with stimulation and a burning need for release, and he finally gasps, “Ah, yes, _fuck,_ that’s a good boy,” and pulls you tightly down against him. He’s as sopping-wet and sticky as you are, the both of you a dripping, squelching mess, and you realize dimly that he’s come. His bulge slides softly out of you and Cronus hauls you back upright, pinning you against his chest and panting hard and excited into your ear, squeezing your bulge tightly. Now you can clamp down. With the new space inside of you he’s got room to _lash_ and it hurts so much and so good, you think maybe you’re screaming.

Eridan sits up, slowly, rubbing at his face like he’s dazed. He reaches down and strokes the sore folds of your nook, gently, then—judging by Cronus’s startled snarl—he grabs the root of Cronus’s bulge. You choke on air as you feel Cronus’s length get pulled out of you, inch by squirming inch.

“Eridan, don’t you fuck with me,” Cronus hisses.

“Just don’t want you to kill him, is all,” he says, “Cro’, you’re gonna rupture something, give him a break.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, pupa,” Cronus says savagely. “Just because you got yours now you think you can act all benevolent, that’s shit,” and you whimper, almost crying. Everything is just too much. Being empty again is awful, you feel hollow, and he’s still squeezing your bulge, rhythmic and maddening, and they’re angry now, you did something wrong, you knew you would. 

“You want this,” Cronus croons in your ear. “Little darlin’, sweetheart, tell me you fuckin’ want me. Tell me you’re just fine, I can feel it. You’re so hungry.”

“I—I want—”

“He’s fuckin' wiped, let him go,” Eridan insists.

“Please—I—”

“Boys,” Dualscar says chillingly. “Let him say what he wants.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” you choke out. You’re in tears again, you know they’re all looking at you, and you’re a fucking mess. You don’t know, fuck, you don’t know anything. “I, I, want, I—Cronus, please. Fuck. Wanna make you happy.”

Eridan hisses through his fangs and flops back against the arm of the couch. Cronus chuckles, warm and sweet, and kisses behind your ear so sweetly. His bulge slides back into you, soft and easy, and you shudder with relief, let him dig his teeth and claws into you anywhere he likes. It feels wonderful, having someone pay such intense attention to you. You let your head rest back against his chest and just ride him, the curl and press of his bulge, the eager grasping of his hands, crying out for him, until he gives a long, low keen and comes.

“Happy now?” Eridan says sourly.

“Very,” Cronus says, and finally lets go of your bulge. You squeak, relieved but somehow disappointed, and he turns your head, nuzzles your cheek, licks your lower lip. It stings and you can vaguely recognize that you’ve bitten yourself, that he’s lapping away your blood from your chin. Everything’s kind of blurry and inconsequential now.

“Did,” you say, hesitant, fumbling for words. “Did I...? Are you...?”

“Yeah, we’re good, champ,” Cronus says, and kisses your forehead. “Bloody well fantastic. You’re a ride and a half, I tell you.”

Pride pours through you like fire and you grin, blinking back further tears. 

"Such a brave little soldier," Dualscar says, and Cronus leans back to let the adult gather you up in his arms. You're so shaky and sloppy and exhausted, but you find you can still manage a wider smile, because he says that like he means it. You try and wipe your face but your fingers hardly work, and big cool hands do it for you. He rubs your tears away, strokes your damp hair off your forehead and eases you down to sit beside him.

“Do you...” you ask, and wave a limp hand at him. “Should... Can I...?”

"No, jewel,” he says. “I’ll bide. Take a breather."

"Thank you," you manage, woozy and trembling. "I'm okay."

"’Okay' is a terrible understatement," Dualscar tells you. “You’re a perfect little fighter, spitfire. You’re brilliant,” and you still adore his smile and it still isn't quite like either of his boys’'. It lights you up inside, the way he smiles at you.

"Here." He hands you a bottle of bright blue energy drink, the glass cool and sweating. "Drink that down, have another sugar bomb, and you'll feel better."

You fumble the cap off the bottle and gulp down a hasty mouthful. Wow, yes, you can tell immediately how badly you need that. You take another drink, letting the carbs and electrolytes and whatever the fuck get into your system to start replenishing everything you've lost to sweat and, and other fluids. A _lot_ of other fluids. When you’ve drained the bottle he hands you another of those greenish pills and you chomp it without thinking. Electric sweetness blasts through you, flooding your mouth with burning syrup, and you cough and hack and drool on yourself. You feel like you’ve been punched in the brain by both moons, everything’s suddenly so bright. Was it like this before with the other one? You can’t remember.

Dualscar sprawls comfortably across the frame, spills you off to one side as he spreads his legs. "While our little treasure gets his strength back, why don't you boys come over here and put on a show for him?"

Cronus and Eridan grin, and you are coaxed to snuggle right up against Dualscar’s side, under his arm, and lay your head on his chest to watch as the two clones slink down the couch towards him. He arches his hips and Eridan slips to the floor to kneel between his knees while Cronus stretches out in a graceful arc, tracing his fingers over Dualscar’s thighs. He cups Dualscar’s bulge, pins it in place under the leather, and mouths it, slow and soft and achingly lazy.

Holy _fuck_ , that’s kinky.

“Give him a pat, sweetie,” Dualscar says, nudging you. You reach out and daringly trace one beautiful fin and Cronus makes a sweet, soft noise, a pleased chirp, and Eridan makes a jealous one. You find yourself laughing, loopy and delighted, and pet Eridan’s fin next. Everything’s kind of funny right now.

Eridan shivers, this delighted expression melting across his face, and your bloodpusher flops in its cage. He smiles up at you when you circle a bitemark with your fingertip, just basking in the attention, and doesn't start moving again until you remember you need to keep Cronus happy, too. When you switch back, Eridan slides his hands up Dualscar's thighs and undoes the button on his pants. "You gonna want these off, I'm guessin'?"

"Absolutely," Dualscar says, and Eridan sinks down further, you think to do something with his boots, but you're not really paying attention to that because Cronus is peeling open Dualscar's pants so you can actually see his bulge really for real. He's so _big_ , holy shit, you're squirming just looking at it, imagining what it would feel like to try to take all of him up into your nook. You couldn’t, you’d fucking burst. It’d probably be worth it.

Cronus smirks at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking, then leans down to lick the tip of Dualscar's bulge and let it slip into his mouth in the most obscene suggestion of a kiss you could possibly imagine. Dualscar moans, soft and low, the sound humming through him and into you and you could die. You could die right here and you wouldn't mind.

His bulge twists, slipping further into Cronus's mouth, far enough that Cronus makes a little helpless sound and his fins flutter. _Your_ bulge pulses at that noise, even though you would have sworn you were too exhausted for more this soon.

"Give him s’more encouragement, love," Dualscar tells you, stroking your side absently.

You run your fingertips along the edge of Cronus's trembling fin again. "You look amazing," you whisper. "Watching you do that is, is incredible." He contrives to look entirely smug, and convulsively swallows down another few inches. It must be in his throat right now, holy fuck, you’re blown away and you tell him as much.

Eridan drags Dualscar's pants down off his hips, off his sleek, muscular thighs, god, every inch of him is so beautiful—and Dualscar spreads his legs further to give Eridan room to lean in close. You can smell sharpness and salt. Eridan dips his head and laps at Dualscar's nook, slow and showy enough that you can see the smear of violet fluid on his tongue. You suddenly want to know what that tastes like, and you feel faintly ashamed of yourself for having that thought, but in a distant way where being ashamed only makes you feel slicker and hotter between your legs.

Dualscar murmurs and shifts, and Eridan glances up at him, gauging his efforts, licks him deeper, slower, then looks at you. One eyebrow’s raised in a clear _well_? and you squeak, shocked and excited.

“Good boy,” you breathe, hoarsely, and comb your fingers through that streak in his hair till his eyes go hazy. “God, you’re so hot, go on,” and he does, grinning to himself, licking harder. Dualscar squeezes you approvingly and your nook gives a hot, heavy pulse, your heart racing. Cronus spits himself farther on Dualscar’s bulge and you realize they’re not just competing with each other for Dualscar’s approval, they’re competing for _your attention_. You want to cackle like a mad scientician at the rush of power, the sheer thrill of both these boys looking to _you_ , but you just coo, admiringly, and slip your hand daringly up to squeeze Eridan’s horn.

He and Dualscar make the exact same moan in different pitches, and it’s perfect and beautiful and eerie. "Oh fuck," you say, "again."

The second time Cronus gets in on it, too, his eyes glittering with mischief, and you suddenly have ridiculously pretty musical harmony sex noises happening right in front of you. You bite down on your own whimper because they just sound so perfect you don't want to ruin it. You can't help squirming, though, and Dualscar's hand slides down your side, over your hip, cupping your ass. You glance up, startled, and see an older, sharper glint of that same devilish mischief in his gaze. A corner of his smile quirks even farther up, flashing those gorgeous fangs, and he curls a finger—around—oh _holy shit._ You make a noise a newhatched chirpbeast would be embarrassed by. You’re sitting on his hand, and he’s got a finger set right along your nook and is just grinning, teasing at your entrance, till you smile back just as wide. It feels _fucking great_.

You shift, spreading your knees wider, leaning into him, making it that much easier for him to reach. "They do make a pretty picture, don't they?" he purrs.

“Well,” you drawl, as soberly as you can, “you’re not so fucking bad yourself, sir.”

You earn an outright laugh at that, god, it feels like you’re glowing. It feels like everything else is glowing, for that matter, all the light in the room smearing itself warm and intense across the wet sheen of Eridan and Cronus’s faces, Dualscar’s fucking _miles_ of abs, the deep purple root of his bulge. The boys still have your red on their hands, there’s even a misplaced strawberry smudge on the side of Cronus’s stretched-wide jaw, and you—you can put your hands anywhere and they _like_ it, they press moaning into your touch with their eyes all pleasure-dark, offering their horns, their cheeks, their delicate regal fins. You would get this picture tattooed on the inside of your eyelids if you could.

"Come here and kiss me, darling," Dualscar says, and you rise up on your knees to give him your mouth. It's a fond kiss, sweet and languid, and you don't know how he can possibly seem that relaxed when he has Cronus and Eridan both using their mouths on him like that. His tongue teases and flickers against yours and he pushes his fingers up deep into your nook, sliding so easily on the mess of mixed fluids still dripping out of you. You gasp with pleasure, fuck yes, ready for more, feeling warm and needy again, and try to tighten the right muscles to make your nook clench down around him. That earns you a _growl_ , oh fuck, thrumming with power and promise and making you rock down onto his hand to try to plead for more.

The pads of his fingers slide against wonderfully sensitive spots inside you, but he's moving so slowly, drawing it out, and you're ready, god, you're ready for him, you _want_. You’re welling over with wanting, dripping all down your thighs. Instead of taking any kind of hint he just kind of _walks_ his two fingers inside you, a teasingly casual echo of what it was like having his boys inside you, and it wrenches the most wild, desperate keen out of you. He does it again, again, fingering you at the same agonizingly slow tempo as he's rolling his hips, and no matter how much you try to push against him, take him faster, get more friction, he won't give you any more. You fist your own bulge desperately but it doesn’t help—it just takes how much you want him and drags a blazing underscore underneath the concept. Finally, desperate, you rear up as far as you can and bite the lowest tine of his fin, quick and sharp.

His breath actually catches at that, and you can hear the boys freeze up.

“ _Fuck_ me,” you plead through gritted teeth. “I can’t _stand_ this.”

He just huffs through his teeth, says mildly, “Fuck a delicate little tidbit like you, sweetheart? I don’t think you could stand _me_.” Like you’re talking about murderball scores or something. And he just keeps moving his fingers in you, slow and gentle, so fucking soft, stretching you wide without giving you any _substance._ You’re ready to start crying again. Your vision is swimming, nearly doubling, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It hardly helps.

"I can take it," you promise, taking deep, measured gulps of air. "I want it, I want you, I need you, I need more, please, please, it's—fuck," and it's so good but it's not enough, not even close. You lick the edges of his fins, nip again, trying to—to fight back, to make him need it as much as you do. You clamp your teeth and _pull_ , so frustrated, and earn yourself another growl and oh, fuck, please, his fingers tremble inside you. You can feel just the edge of a claw. He slips a third finger in, and that’s it, that’s tight, you can feel the strain of it pushing you hard against the edge of too much pain to enjoy and you know you can’t possibly take his bulge but you don’t care. You feel like they could rip you into bloody chunks and you’d still want more, feverish with the need.

“More,” you tell him, choking on yourself. “More, Dualscar, sir, fuck, please. I’ll die if you don’t. Please.”

“Alright,” he says, “alright, sweetheart, yeah,” and he sounds affected, finally, his voice gone rough and low, more growl than words. You think maybe the only thing keeping you from catching on fire is how fucking wet he’s gotten you.

He takes Cronus by one horn and pulls, and you watch as Cronus slowly leans back, letting the full—impressive, terrifying—length of Dualscar's bulge slide slowly out of his mouth. "Fetch the toybox, you little monster," Dualscar says.

Cronus grins. "Aye aye, captain," he says, and rises entirely too smoothly to his feet. He's a mess, his bulge still hanging thick between his thighs, his gray skin smeared with red and violet slurry. You look down as he walks away, and Eridan hasn't let up, lips and tongue still working against Dualscar's nook.

"God, that must feel so good," you whisper, and Eridan is the one who moans a needy assent. You almost ask if you can do it too, except that you're afraid you wouldn't be good enough at it to make him happy.

"Here," Cronus says, bringing the toybox back. "Which one're you thinking?"

The toybox is this fancy case lined in black velvet, showing off half a dozen outrageously large, unbelievably detailed dildos. You try not to stare in horror, but even the smallest one looks intimidating. The biggest one is like the size of your forearm, longer even than Dualscar’s fucking leviathan of a bone bulge, you couldn’t, you’d _rupture_.

Dualscar reaches out and taps one of the bigger ones, though, this swirling monstrosity of translucent blue glass. It's easily bigger all around than your fist. You whimper faintly at the delighted look on Cronus's face as he takes it out of the box. You'll try, fuck, you want to be good for them, want to pay them back for how amazing they've made you feel, but you just don't know if you _can_.

Cronus elbows Eridan in the side. "Come on, pupa, out of the way. Your tongue's only gonna go so far."

"Fuck you, you wish you were as good at that as I am," Eridan says as he sits back. His mouth and chin are soaked with Dualscar's fluids, and before you can talk yourself out of it you're reaching for him. He lets you pull him close for a sloppy kiss, and you can taste tingling sharpness in his mouth. You lick at his lips, his cheeks, his chin, urged on by the low growls of approval Dualscar makes. Some part of you is distantly aware you might be stalling, scared to your marrow of that enormous toy, and the rest is just caught up in every bit of sharp violet tang you can lick from his face. You’re good, you want, you do want. You want so much.

Eridan's the one who pulls back. "You're great, babe, but you don't want to miss this," he says, and you look where he's looking: Cronus is kneeling between Dualscar's spread thighs now, holding the monster toy in both hands. Dualscar's free hand is playing with the last few inches of his bulge, and he's watching Cronus intently.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Go on, darlin'," he says. "Nice and slow."

Cronus just grins, cocky and pleased, and sets the tip of the toy to Dualscar’s nook. He presses it forwards in short, steady intervals, bit by bit, and you’re transfixed watching it sink in. It gets at least four, five inches in and Duaslcar’s breath starts coming faster, deeper, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch and rolls his hips, and Cronus twists the toy as he shoves it deeper.

“Yeah,” Dualscar growls, “C’mon, boy, stuff me, fill me up.”

You whimper, and Cronus is bright-eyed with excitement, rocking the toy in to the hilt, twisting and settling it as Dualscar lets out that sub-sonic low keen of his. His fingers curl inside you, convulsive, and you’re are going to fucking combust, you’re going to come apart. You saw how big that thing was and it’s that far inside him now, as deep and relentless as his fingers are in you, leaving him draped boneless and panting over the couch in raw unabashed pleasure.

Cronus gives his bulge a wet pap, and steps back. For another few seconds Dualscar just rocks there, bulge twisting against his fingers as he focuses on the feeling of the toy inside him. His fins are flushed, his lips parted, his face this beautiful unguarded expression of delight.

"Oh my god," you whisper, and his eyes open; he glances over at you lazy and pleased. "That's—you're so pretty, sir."

The lazy pleasure transforms slowly into a hungry smile, and he slides his fingers out of your nook, despite the helpless way your hips try to follow. "Come here, little gem," he purrs. "Let me have that hot little hole my boys were fighting over." Your face flushes so hard you think you're going to die, and your bulge throbs, and you're aching for him to touch you again, every inch of your skin and all the way up into your abdomen you're just one shivery pulse of need.

The room jolts and spins when he picks you up, shifts you to perch with a knee on each of his thighs and it seems like that might hurt, maybe—you chirp in concern and he just laughs and you realize you weigh nothing to him. He can move you as easily as he moves a soda can. You rest your forehead on the slick, flexing strut of his collarbone and gasp for air, and he squeezes your sides.

“Steady on, little soldier,” he says. “Stay with me.”

“Yeah, I will, come on,” you say. It’s unbearable that he’s only touching your sides; every heartbeat just leaves you more bereft. You’re already squirming, rubbing your aching bulge against his stomach. You cup your hands to his fins and he smiles at you and then the blunt tip of his bulge finds your nook and you bite his clavicle on reflex.

“Fuck, _darlin’,_ ” he keens, and you realize that you’re the one making him sound like that: his bulge working its way into your nook is what’s got him shaking. “Ah, you lovely thing, you’re perfect, stay like that, just, stay like that.”

You can taste blood, and his breath is rough and thrumming next to your own aurals, his chest pushing up against yours as he arches, and his hands grip you like iron bands, pushing you down slowly as his bulge works its way up and in. You make embarrassing chirping and whimpering sounds as each flex of his bulge stretches you a little wider, fills you a little deeper. Your knees slip to either side of him so you can get closer, and you're panting with the effort of taking him as his bulge inches its way into you. It twists and curls and he keeps pulling you down, fuck, this isn't _possible_ but you're doing it.

Your glutes touch his thighs and you settle there and that means you've taken it all, means Dualscar is all the way inside you, and you sit there taking gulping desperate breaths as you try to convince all your limbs to stop shaking so badly. Dualscar purrs, low and rumbling, and for a few seconds he just sits there with you, holding still. You slide your hands down from his shoulders to his chest, bracing yourself, and try to squeeze down around him. God, the muscles don't even have room to clench, he's stretching you so wide.

"Perfect little treasure," he calls you, and tears sting your eyes because it's so wonderful that you can be here with him, that for some reason he likes you this much. You're crying but you're smiling, and then he starts to move inside you and you think you're going to just come apart at all your seams.

He fucks you more slowly than either of the clones did, like he's in no hurry, like he wants time to savor every sensation. That means _you_ have that much time, too, every ripple of his bulge humming out through your nerve endings, the world going hot and liquid around you, your bones and muscles just starting to melt under the irresistible force of Dualscar taking you, wrecking you, giving you everything you never dared to want.

You are losing yourself to this, you know that, you can feel your thinkmatter just slagging down, everything getting simple and vast and disjointed, every endless ripple of pressure and pleasure flooding through you, every tectonic shift of Dualscar’s presence inside you just splitting more of your mind away. You are going, going, gone, and you don’t care, because it’s amazing. It’s like dying, maybe, only good, only right, only perfect. You want to give him everything, all of you, every bit, every possible piece that would please him. You weren’t using any of it for anything as worthwhile as this, as making him moan from the enjoyment of having you.

At some point you do just lose track of everything. You close your eyes against the endless onslaught of force and pleasure and then... there's a blank spot in your head after that, it’s just black and good and vague all the way through. The next thing you really, actually, properly know is you're slumped boneless against Dualscar's chest with your bulge and nook throbbing their way through an orgasm and you can't remember the buildup at all. You're such a sloppy wet disaster that you can't have been the only one coming, and a tiny bit of you wishes you could remember the last few minutes because he must be so _amazing_ when he comes, but it's hard to even hold on to the thought. You feel as though you have been reduced to the exact same texture and consistency all the way through your body, a kind of warm, happy pulp. Dualscar lifts your head off his chest, and runs his thumb under your nose. You purr—purr louder, you’re already, fuck, you’re so great—you purr and lick his thumb. It tastes of blood.

Everything is so _bright_.

“Oh, darlin’,” he says, softly, and chucks your chin. “Look at you, pretty. You’re a royal mess.”

You smile.

“Fire him up again,” Cronus says. “Dualscar, come on, I want—”

“ _NO_ ,” Dualscar says, and it’s a shockwave of a snarl, a dark lash. Cronus recoils.

Dualscar’s hands come up around your back, touch your damp skin very softly. His chest rises, falls. “If you two want to fuck someone to death today,” Dualscar rumbles, finally, measuredly, “I’d like to point out you have each other. I’m putting this poor thing to bed.”

He eases his retracting bulge out of you, and you make a low noise of discomfort. Without the pressure you feel increasingly strange and sore, vaguely not right. Where your own bulge is retracting kind of aches, through the haze and fog, as does some place deep in you, just under your guts. Dualscar rubs your legs, digs his thumbs into the inside of your thighs, and you chirp and go completely limp in his arms. All you want is to black out again.

He’s got another bottle of juice, a different taste that takes you half the bottle to realize is just fresh water. It’s the most delicious thing you’ve had since forever. He takes the empty one away and gives you another, and then everything dips and sways, and you see the ceiling, spinning and resetting, and the underside of his chin. Heh, you can see up his nose. He’s got you tucked in the crook of one arm, petting your stomach absently as he takes you off to some other room, settles you into a wide pool of slime. You rest your head on the rim, still absently nibbling at the bottle’s nozzle, and manage to grab his wrist when he pats your hair.

“Nnn. Hey,” you say. Your tongue is thick, your thoughts the same kind of pulp as the rest of you, hard to pick out of the mess.

“Go to sleep, little hero,” Dualscar says gently, but you hang on tight.

“No, I, I will, I, fuck, I just... Mmnh. This was. Nice. Should say. All of it. Never did anything this _nice,_ sir.”

He presses a kiss to your topmost horn.

“Go to sleep, love,” he says. “Karkat.”

“Yessir,” you say sleepily, and let him go, and close your eyes, and are gone.

* * *

You wake up dead.

It takes a long time of staring at the ceiling to realize that maybe, if you were really dead, you wouldn’t hurt this much. You roll over slowly in the slime, moaning, and realize what you’d instinctively taken as the comforting closeness of a small recuperacoon is actually a cage of cool, solid bodies.

“Hey, chief,” Cronus Ampora says, and pats your head. He’s sprawled over the rim of the apparently _pool-sized_ recuperacoon, playing some handheld game. You’re pressed alongside his muscular back and also his bare ass, your head resting just below his ribs. Eridan is curled around you like a cape, and when you try to shrink away from the older clone the younger one nuzzles into your shoulder, grumbling. You try really hard not to get any parts of you pressed any more firmly against Cronus’s butt and the effort makes you moan. You are one big cramp.

“Cut the crap, you barnacle, he’s up,” Cronus says, reaching out and shaking Eridan’s head by one horn. The arms set casually around your thorax constrict, and Eridan rolls you up and over in one swift arc. You splash back into the slime with a jolt that rattles your teeth.

“He’s warm,” Eridan slurs. He nuzzles behind your ear. “S’nice.”

You whimper. His breath whistles ticklishly against your ear, chill and electrifying, and the ache between your legs— _inside you_ —pitches up from a throb to a gale-force battering. You’ve got like an awful paradox bone bulge situation right now, where it hurts too much to get turned on but you’re turned on anyway, because you can’t think about the pain without thinking about where it is, it’s set all through your _sex organs_ where people had _sex_ with you, and now they want to have sex with you again. Eridan slides a hand along your stomach and the warming tingle in your nook actually stings.

“And you think _we’re_ nice too, don’t you, sweetie,” he murmurs, and cups between your legs, “yeah, god, look at you,” palming where your bulge is unsheathing inch by burning inch. You moan at the pressure of his soft slick hand, completely helpless. It hurts but it hurts so good.

“Pupa,” Cronus says warningly. “Dualscar said—”

“Oh, go fuck a lobster, Cro,” Eridan says blithely. “He said we weren’t to _bother_ him. He look bothered to you?”

He splays his fingers, lets your bulge press through the gap. You can feel your hips start pushing up against him as you whine and shake in his hold, the tight warning pull of the muscles in your thighs, your lower back, the electric shiver of want up your spine. You feel like your head’s splitting apart.

Cronus swallows. “No,” he says hoarsely after a long minute. “No, he looks... fine.”

“You gotta try this sweet little bulge,” Eridan says. “S’like a piece’a sunlight, bro, it’s gorgeous.”

"Burns you right up inside, huh," Cronus says, hungrily, like that's something he wants. Eridan slips one slim finger inside you, slick and cool, pushes against something bright and burning that has you seeing stars and chirping fast and ragged, not so much grinding against him as convulsing. You’re losing time, you think, the world going in fits and glitchy starts, every time you blink, Cronus leaning over you, your head pounding. You’re sore and wordless and you should be telling them _yes, go on,_ they’re looking at you like they’re waiting, you don't want to disappoint them, don't want to do it wrong. You can’t _focus._ You’re still losing time and you’re so tired, you want them, you do, but you can’t help it. You keen, feeble and half-assed, and let your head rest heavy against Eridan’s chest.

Cronus has just crooked two fingers along your smarting, needy bulge, cautiously, letting it clench down around his sopor-slick knuckles, when the door to the respite chamber hisses open. Dualscar stands there, dressed more casually than you could ever have imagined, wearing a _t-shirt,_ and holding a steaming bowl. Both boys flinch—Cronus sinking down to his eyes in the slime—and you just whimper.

“Boys,” Dualscar growls and if you thought his voice could get deep last night it was nothing. The rippling thrum he’s making now shakes your bones. “Wait for me in the mealblock.”

The two of them look so scared. Quiet as mice they let you go, climb out of the slime, creep out of the chamber.

“I wanted it,” you say quickly, as Dualscar comes towards you. “I did.”

Dualscar just settles down to sit beside you “Of course you did, little sweetheart,” he says, and runs a claw delicately up one of your horns. “But that’s irrelevant. I gave my boys an order and I’m very disappointed in them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as they’re going to be. Now, stop apologizing for what’s none’a your look out, sprat, and eat something.”

Your hands are a little shaky as you reach for the bowl, and as soon as you bring it close enough to smell your gastric sac growls and your mouth fills with saliva. Food suddenly sounds like such a ridiculous blessing you almost can't stand it. You think you might still be a wreck.

The bowl is full to the brim with a spicy orange seafood soup, and everything about it is glorious. You didn't have a proper supper yesterday, you realize, just those bits of sushi and then, well, all that strenuous activity. You ladle soup into your mouth like it's a _mission_ , inflamed bulge coiling restlessly against your thighs, and Dualscar sits beside you, just watching with a gentle smile on his face, reaching up occasionally to stroke your hair.

When the bowl is empty—you stop yourself from licking the last drops of broth out of it, but only barely—you say, "Thank you, sir. I think I really needed that."

"I don't doubt it," he says. He takes the bowl from you and sets it aside, then brushes your hair off your forehead. You chirp for him, raise your mouth up for a kiss, but he only taps your nose. "You should still get some more sleep. No, don't argue," he says gently when you take a breath to protest. "You pailed hard enough for three last night, darlin'. Give yourself a chance to recover."

You blush so hard at the little wink he gives you when he says that, but you're also still just stunned that he could be so kind to _you_ , that he could give you all this personal care and affection. "Yes, sir," you say. "It was amazing. I think I said. Didn't I?"

"You did. And I completely agree. Now go back to sleep, jewel."

You take a deep, unsteady breath, completely unsure of what to do about your stupid bone bulge. With the soup settling warm and steady into your digestive sack you’re hotter than ever, more than up for it, and you can feel your nook leaking.

“Can I,” you say haltingly. “I’m not, uh, arguing. But. Can I have some ice, please?”

He sighs and leans over and kisses your horn. "My boys shouldn’t have touched you. If you need to rub one out to get back to sleep, go ahead, the filters will clean the sopor out." His fingers are still running through your hair, slow and gentle. "Just try to go easy on yourself, sweetheart.”

You’re not really firing on all thrusters yet, and so you just nod and tangle your fingers with your neglected bulge. He slides you back into the slime and collects the bowl, and you’re fading out before he even makes it to the door.

* * *

You're less dead the second time you wake up. Your bulge apparently gave up on its own when you fell asleep, and now it's entirely retracted again. You still ache pretty much everywhere between your waist and your knees, but it's less intense than it was. You're hungry again, too. You could eat a hoofbeast and make a pretty solid inroad on its cavalreaper.

You lever yourself slowly, painfully, out of the enormous recuperacoon, and there's a stack of huge plush towels sitting on a chair next to it. You hesitate for a minute, but probably it's there to wipe down with, isn't it? You scrub off as quickly as you can with your joints feeling like rust and sandpaper, wrap a fresh towel around yourself chest to knees, and shuffle out to see if there’s any more soup. Or sushi. Or stylists. Anything slow enough to put in your mouth, basically.

You step through the door and into some bizarre alternate reality that looks almost like the one you came from, except that this one features Amporas in lounging-around-the-hive ridiculous casualwear. Cronus is wearing a pair of purple sweatpants that say PINCH ME on the butt and nothing else, for fuck's sake. Eridan is wrapped up in a teal bathrobe and applying a fresh coat of polish to his claws.

"Um," you say, which is not your best moment.

Eridan looks up, eyes wide and... nervous? and Cronus actually jumps. "Hey, chief," he says. "Glad you're up. Feelin’ better? Lemme just go grab the boss." He scoots out the door before you can do more than blink.

You chew your lip nervously. "I, uh, really hope I didn't get you in trouble," you say.

"No, Kar, don't even worry about it," Eridan says, screwing the cap back on the bottle of polish. "Hey, you want somethin' to eat maybe?"

"Oh my god, yes," you say. You laugh nervously. "I'm starving."

The smile he gives you makes it seem like he actually is close to your age, for once. "Yeah, they ran you around on set all night before we hooked up, huh? Plenty there to work up an appetite."

He ushers you delicately—fanning at you, not touching—off to the preparation mesa in the mealblock, pulls out one of the stools for you. "We ate earlier, but there's plenty left," he says. "Here, dig in."

The nutrition plateau he sets down in front of you has a fan of thick-sliced strips of steak on it, just barely seared on the outside to make the spice crust stick, still wet and bloody-blue in the center. You've never tasted meat this rich and flavorful, fuck, it practically melts into little mouthfuls of bloody heaven in your mouth.

Eridan just stands there watching, which is weird but you can't complain. You just chew your way through the whole plateau full, trying to figure out how to make it clear that you appreciate how good it is without looking like the pathetic impoverished lowblood you are.

Cronus ducks back in just as you're finishing the last of the plate. "Dualscar's on his way over," he reports, and gives you a hopeful little smile. "Gonna be glad to see you up and about again."

You could probably eat another two or three plates of that steak without slowing down, but you don't want to seem like a greedy asshole so you don't ask if there's more. Eridan plops a bottle of energy drink down in front of you and you smile your thanks at him.

Cronus ruffles your hair, very gently, on his way past you to the thermal hull, then pulls out a bowl of fat, shiny scarabs.

“You just had breakfast,” Eridan objects.

Cronus hooks out a stool and settles beside you. “You’re the one on a diet, you neurotic little anklebiter,” he says coolly, and pinches your fork. “Here, chief, you want some?”

“Um,” you say. “If you’re offering.”

He spears one cold-stunned beetle through its glistening shell and waves it at you. Blushing again, you nip it off the tines and sit back, chewing as neatly as you can. They’re _sugar-glazed_. It's like eating pure joy.

Cronus spears another one and holds it up for you, smiling sweet and pleased, and Eridan scowls anxiously and settles down into the stool on your other side. You hitch your towel around you a little tighter and wish you had any idea what had happened to your clothes. You'll have to ask about that. Soon. Right now the lure of being fed more beetles is still too strong to ignore.

When the door to the outside swings open you wish you'd made pants more of a priority. You curl up in a little instinctive, defensive move, and then it takes all your willpower not to _swoon_ , because it's Dualscar coming in through the doorway: Dualscar in a crisp charcoal three-piece suit and a pair of delicate gold-rimmed glasses, like the dashing hero of the sexiest legislacerator drama you can imagine.

"Hello, lovely," he says with a smile just like the one he gave you the first time—fuck, was it only yesterday?—when he picked you up off the floor of the set. The smile that says _you've done well and I'm here to rescue you now_. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

You blush even harder. At this rate your ears are going to melt off. "Thank you, sir," you say. You think you should put in a good word for the boys, since they're still clearly so nervous. "Eridan and Cronus got me some breakfast. That's, um, definitely helping."

Dualscar nods, and you're pretty sure he knows exactly why you said that, but it's true, and you really don't want them to be in trouble, so you don't take it back. "Perhaps they can find you something to wear, too. Eridan, you're closest to his size."

"Can do," Eridan says, sliding off the bar stool and giving your shoulder a barely-there squeeze as he goes by. You get up and shuffle after him, waiting while he rummages through a wardrobifier. He hands you a butter-soft pair of torn bluejeans and a t-shirt from the _Fight for Lovve_ tour. “There,” he says, pleased. “I was about your size last sweep.”

“Thanks,” you say, and hold them awkwardly. “Uh, should. Fuck. Can you...?”

“What? Oh!” Eridan bites his lip and turns on his heel. “Right.”

Getting dressed is awkward and your legs are _way too sore_ for this shit, but you wriggle your way awkwardly into the pants, and catch him peeking at you over his shoulder, still chewing on his lip. He looks _shy_. It’s incredibly cute. You pull the shirt over your head and smile a little, in the darkness. He goes down on his knees and rolls up the cuffs of the pants for you when you grimace at the idea of bending over to do it yourself. You put a hand on his shoulder while he does it, and just let yourself feel quietly overwhelmed by the amount of kindness they've shown you over the last day.

When you get back to the kitchen Dualscar and Cronus are working their way through the scarabs, peeling the wing coverts off and flicking them at each other’s hair. When they see you they both sit up very straight, and Dualscar coughs into his fist. With the mature translucence of his adult skin, it’s easy to see the tint of purple on his high, sharp cheekbones. Cronus’s messy curls are studded with shiny green crescents.

Your heart breaks, very thoroughly, inside you. You don’t just love these three, you don’t just adore them from the other side of a screen, now you’re _in love_ with them. This is the worst thing to ever have happened to you. You can’t regret it for a heartbeat.

Dualscar clears his throat meaningfully. "Karkat," he says. "Have a seat, please." He reaches for the brown legal folder he had with him when he came in. You're shaking as you sit down across from him, imagining what that folder might contain. Can they make you sign paperwork to promise you'll never talk to the media about what happened here? They must be able to. Fuck, you’re a scandal waiting to happen, aren’t you, they don’t need the tabloids all saying they fucked a mutant. You try to tell yourself you're not going to cry.

"Sir," you say, and that's it; your throat is already too tight for you to keep going. You hold very, very still.

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself with us, as much as we've enjoyed having your company," he begins. You blink really hard and nod once. He reaches across the table, palm up, and you're confused but you give him your hand. He holds onto you so gently, not even squeezing, like he's concerned you might break unless he's careful. "I'd like you to consider staying.”

“What,” you choke.

“I know this is extremely sudden, but it could be an excellent opportunity if you're prepared to act on it," he says, quickly, crisply. He ruffles at the papers. "I've seen the preliminary footage from the video and it looks wonderful. You have the talent and the drive to do well for yourself and add ah, add an extraordinarily valuable fresh presence to my roster. I have the best publicists in the business and a direct line to the Ministerror; it shouldn’t be hard to present a mutation as visually striking as your own as romantic, even patriotic. All I need is your agreement and we can make it work. The contract I've had drawn up provides that we'll take care of all of your needs, stipend, and so on, if you'll sign on to support this album and its tour as my matesprit, including the necessary public appearances and interviews we'd be expected to give together."

You open your mouth. You shut it again. You stare at his hand, the way it dwarfs yours, at the way he’s holding you so delicately. You look up at his face and you're waiting for a punchline, fuck. They’re all just _looking_ at you.

“Shit like this doesn’t happen to shit like me,” you croak, trying to explain yourself. You've known this for sweeps, you've practically made it a goddamn mantra, it reminds you that the world isn’t nice but it isn’t unfair, it helps you remember that _you don’t deserve what you’ll never get anyway._ It reminds you not to waste your life hoping. And you promised yourself you weren’t going to cry.

Dualscar smiles at you tenderly. "You're a treasure, Karkat. It's about time 'shit like this' started happening to someone as precious as you. If you want it to, just say the word."

“I do,” you say, “I do, I want to stay, I don’t fucking want anything more than, just, to stay. With all of you. Forever.”

He gives you a pen. “You just have to sign,” he says. “We’ll take care of the rest, sweetheart. You’ll never have to leave.”

You can barely see the dotted line through your stupid tears, much less read all the fine print, but you manage to scribble your name at the bottom of the page. Dualscar comes around the table and wraps you up in his arms, showering your face with kisses. This can't be your life. This can't _possibly_ be your life. But you'll take it.

 _don't listen to the fools that hold you back_  
 _for you will achieve what they can only dream_  
 _now escape the grip of good old common sense_  
 _and trust yourself for reaching further on_  
—Covenant, "Riot"


End file.
